Kate Moore (20 page)

Chapter One

London. Three weeks later.

Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world; and everybody began to find out, that they had always distrusted the appearance of his goodness.

—Jane Austen
, Pride and Prejudi
ce

Blackstone opened one eye to squint at the vault of the ceiling above him, pale as a bride cake and distant as the moon. The cushioned surface under him didn’t heave or shudder. He remembered.
Goldsworthy’s club. Albemarle Street. London.

He was not in a cave. He had not witnessed a beheading in weeks or seen a thirteen-year-old slave given to a brutal man as a prize. Sometimes on waking, it took him awhile to dismiss the images his sleeping mind released.

“Wilde, open that drapery, and you’re a dead man.” The menacing voice came from another sofa in the cavernous coffee room of Goldsworthy’s club where Blackstone and his fellow spies had ended the previous night.

Rain, English rain, cool and fitful, battered a window somewhere and rattled a drainpipe. The freshness of it was another reminder that he was home.

“Good morning to you, Lord Hazelwood. Coffee?” A now familiar voice, young and unreasonably cheerful, came with a hint of London’s East End in the flattened vowels.
Coffee
sounded like
cawfy
in Blackstone’s ears, but the smell induced him to lift his head.

A groan came from a third couch, but the purposeful clink of china went on, and the coffee smell intensified.

“Lord Blackstone?” The young male voice was now at his side. Blackstone pushed upright and swung his feet to the floor. Nate Wilde, Goldsworthy’s protégé, was both a sort of majordomo at the club and their access to Goldsworthy himself. The youth, dressed in a fashionable ink blue coat and buff trousers, thrust a steaming cup of coffee at him and Blackstone took it. Impossible not to—the stuff smelled so good.

He watched Wilde coax the room’s other two occupants to wakefulness. For a few minutes there was silence, while the coffee worked to make the world a bearable place in which a man could speak civilly to his fellows.

Blackstone drank, grateful for the relative quiet and calm of the coffee room. It was the one fully furnished room in the club at the moment, as the rest of the place was undergoing renovations that Goldsworthy had failed to mention in his recruiting pitch.

Scaffolding surrounded the building, and each day an army of carpenters, plasterers, masons, and bricklayers appeared early and set to banging away and raising a good deal of dust. Curtains of canvas concealed halls and staircases.

The coffee room, however, was a quiet, wholly male space with a lack of fuss or frill, darkly paneled with deep leather chairs, a rich swirling carpet of reds, blues, and golds, well-stocked bookcases, and a gleaming silver coffee urn on a table clad in crisp white linen.

Blackstone’s fellow spies were Captain Clare, a hero of Waterloo, in scarlet regimentals, and Viscount Hazelwood, the Earl of Vange’s disinherited heir. Wild-haired Hazelwood wore a rumpled black evening coat over white satin breeches that might have once been pristine, but now bore stains to make a man’s valet weep or faint. Though Blackstone and his fellow spies had shared little of the circumstances that had brought them to Goldsworthy’s employ, Blackstone had pieced together what he could about the other two.

Each had signed a contract with Goldsworthy that Clare claimed was legal, and that Hazelwood declared was tight as a vicar’s ass. Each had been assigned a rung of London’s social ladder as his territory. Clare haunted low taverns frequented by soldiers, sailors, and radicals. Hazelwood moved between gaming halls and brothels. And Blackstone had been assigned the fashionable West End.

His first assignment was Lady Ravenhurst, whose politically ambitious husband often carried foreign office dispatches to and from his library at home. Gossip claimed that lonely Lady Ravenhurst was seeking diversion in the arms of a Russian count, whose designs were perhaps on secret documents rather than the lady. Goldsworthy had assigned Blackstone to make himself agreeable enough to cut the count out of the running as the lady’s lover.

As the coffee began to have an effect, the captain addressed Wilde.

“Where did you learn to make coffee this good, Wilde?”

Hazelwood answered for the boy. “He’s a Turk and was a slave in Istanbul under the sultan.”

Wilde’s grin revealed a gleaming set of white teeth. “London born and bred, gentlemen. An old soldier named Harding taught me. You lot will likely meet him on some case or other.”

“Couldn’t he have taught you to make porter?”

Wilde shrugged, his grin fading. “No porter for you, Lord Hazelwood.”

Clare lifted his cup in a toast, “Sobriety, solvency, and celibacy. That’s the motto here.” Clare was a wiry redhead with a far-seeing look. Blackstone had no trouble imagining him leading his men through the chaos of a smoking battlefield.

“It will make you fit as a prizefighter, Captain.”

“It’ll make us duller than moss growing.” Hazelwood stared morosely at his coffee.

Wilde laughed, apparently unperturbed at his charges’ grousing. “Not for long, I’ll wager.” He tapped the gleaming silver vessel on the cloth-covered table. “The urn’s full. Newspapers are here. Ring when you’re hungry.”

After he left, silence descended on the room for a time. Then Hazelwood turned to Blackstone. “So how are you getting on with Lady Ravenhurst?”

“Well enough.” The lady had sent him a pointed invitation to join her guests for an evening of song, making it clear that her husband would not be present. So he had spent the previous evening shoulder to shoulder with the fashionable of London in a row of gilded chairs enduring the heat of candles and close bodies and a lady’s fan occasionally drawn across his thigh by the movement of her arm. The Russian count had been conspicuously absent. Blackstone would have a good report to make to Goldsworthy. “And you?”

Hazelwood was following the missteps of a set of fashionable youngbloods, one of whom had an older brother in the cabinet.

“It’s been a purgatorial fortnight, and I’ve got nothing.” Hazelwood staggered to his feet, refilled his cup from the urn, and tucked one of the newspapers under his arm. “How is a man to think with an army of carpenters banging away and not a drop of liquor to be got out of that inscrutable whelp of a tailor’s dummy, who claims to be at our service?”

Blackstone had to laugh. Wilde cheerfully directed them to anything they needed and nothing they wanted. They had a valet, Twickler, and if they needed funds or a carriage, Wilde arranged them. Around the corner from the club, but accessible to it through connecting back gardens, was a chemist’s shop on Bond Street that supplied them with all the accessories of men of fashion. Kirby, the artist who dressed Goldsworthy’s stable of spies had frowned at Blackstone’s color and thinness. But to his credit he had turned a man who had eaten subsistent rations for a year into a model of wealth and fashion. No one would guess he still bore the effects of his captivity.

This morning Clare’s gaze seemed to sharpen as the coffee took effect. “Blackstone, whatever happened to that painting of your mistress, the Spanish dancer, the one that made you notorious?”

Hazelwood’s brows lifted. “What’s this? Blackstone, you sly dog. You never mentioned a scandal. I guess that answers the question about why you landed here. Did your family disown you?”

“The title was mine.”

“Ah, the title and the tittle-tattle. The print shops must have enjoyed your folly. Goldsworthy’s genius begins to reveal itself.” Hazelwood put his cup on the floor and settled back down on his couch, opening the newspaper and pulling it over his face. Blackstone turned to Clare, who leaned forward, his coffee cup in both hands.

“Hazelwood has a theory about why Goldsworthy tapped us for this work, which your situation rather confirms. Hazelwood thinks that Goldsworthy picked us for our notoriety.”

“I thought spies were discreet fellows.”

“Hazelwood thinks, and I see his point, that if a man’s reputation is fixed in the public mind, no one will suspect him of being anything other than what he is by reputation.”

“So you’re a hero, Hazelwood is a wastrel . . .”

“And you’re a rake.”

Blackstone had to acknowledge the logic of it. People tended to see what they expected to see.

He’d now spent a fortnight back in London, and had discovered that the scandalous painting that had made his reputation at four and twenty still defined him. He had never guessed, in the stunned moment of seeing that painting for the first time, that it would come to define
him
. Nor had he understood how impossible it was to shake a scandal. At twenty-four he had been free in his assumption of power and privilege. He had believed that he alone defined his place in the world’s eyes. No painter, a mere dabbler in oils, in a reeking studio, could hurt a peer of the realm. He’d been wrong.

When he refused to pay for the painting, the painter Royce made it public, and scandal broke over his head. Sobriquets for his mighty manhood appeared repeatedly in the sort of doggerel the gossip sheets indulged in. Women he’d never met left their cards. He was invited to the masquerades and the balls of the demi-monde and expected to arrive wherever general debauchery might ensue. At the time he could hardly protest that he was not a scoundrel. He had made a promise. While raffish strangers flocked to make his acquaintance, his betrothed and his family had broken all connection with him.

Wilde strode back into the room carrying a covered basket. Outside the daily hammering began.

“Where’s Goldsworthy?” Blackstone wanted to make his daily report.

“Never where you need him.” Hazelwood’s newspaper rustled over his concealed face. “Damned elusive fellow. Comes and goes like a ghost.”

“Mr. Goldsworthy does a bit of fishing now and then.” Wilde deposited his basket of fresh rolls. “As a matter of fact, he’s waiting for you this morning, Lord Blackstone.”

“Time to pay the piper, Blackstone,” Hazelwood mumbled from under his paper.

Wilde glanced at Hazelwood’s recumbent form. “Your turn will come, Lord Hazelwood.”

Chapter Two

 . . . she is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.

—Jane Austen
, Pride and Prejudi
ce

Violet Hammersley understood better than most that the time of day to which Londoners referred as
morning
was not determined by clocks or the spinning of the planet, but by one’s station in life. The lowliest maid rose at four to start fires and heat water. Her mistress might not rise until ten. At one in the afternoon Violet’s
morning
call on her grace, the Duchess of Huntingdon, Penelope Frayne, came to an end.

“Violet, dear, you must be so pleased. Your ball will be a notable success.” Penelope offered a faint perfumed embrace as her butler waited to escort Violet to the door of the grand house on Park Lane.

“I’m just grateful to have your help, Penelope. Thank you.”

“Do not concern yourself. You must have a hundred details on your mind. An upcoming royal visit, how will you manage?”

“Thankfully, the Prince of Moldova is my brother’s guest. Milvert’s Hotel will bear the brunt of any royal demands. You do not think I overstated the charitable purpose of our ball?” Violet had been aware of all eyes turning to Penelope when the other women present realized they were being asked to support a cause.

“Not at all. My friends are pleased to be patronesses of such a worthy endeavor. What could be more fitting than that we support our downtrodden sisters who make the very cloth of our gowns?” The duchess lifted her own moss-colored gros de Naples skirts and let them fall in a liquid whisper. She linked her arm in Violet’s and dismissed her butler with a nod. “I’ll see Miss Hammersley out, Coyle.”

Worthy endeavor.
Violet’s head buzzed with the details of the ball, but Penelope’s words reduced the glittering ballroom of her imagination to a sober meeting of the Society for the Care of Indigent Widows. Perhaps she had gone too far in making herself a pattern card of feminine propriety.

Not that Violet had dreamed of balls as a girl. What she had dreamed of was an office of her own in her father’s bank. In the months after her mama’s death Papa had not known what to do with his solemn, big-eyed, sugarplum of a daughter. Bereft himself, and with his son away at school, Papa had not wanted to leave Violet at home each day, and so, admonishing her to be quiet and good, he had taken her to his bank and allowed her to sit in a large leather chair in his office.

Violet loved the bank. She had not then known anything of Athens and its time-whitened temples, on which the bank was modeled. But the bank’s grand columns and stately air appealed to her, and the bank was never lonely. It even had its own special sound. Violet thought it was the sound of energy itself, a compound of papers and footsteps rustling and pens scratching and low purposeful voices and muffled London traffic.

From that time, Violet had wanted an office of her own like Papa’s, and it seemed as if she must inevitably become a banker because she was Papa’s daughter and because when his partners stopped to say hello, they would set sums to tease her, and she would always know the answers.

Much later, when she was thirteen and changing into her unrecognizable grown-up self, Papa had been surprised to hear she wanted to be a banker. He had told her that girls did not become bankers, and when she had wanted to know what they did become, he had thrown up his hands and told her that he expected she would be interested in girl things, not banking.

Violet had been at first puzzled to hear of this division in the world of things between those that belonged to males and those that belonged to females. It reminded her of the befuddling way that French people divided their nouns into masculine and feminine nouns. She had asked her papa what principle one used to sort out which thing belonged to which sex.

Papa had shrugged again. He thought a person simply knew. So Violet made a list of things that interested her and showed it to her brother Frank. He cheerfully told her that nothing on her list was a girl thing—not banking, not money, not law, not justice, not architecture, not steam engines. He scribbled an alternate list next to hers—bonnets, dresses, gloves, shoes, charities, books, and balls. “These are girl things, Violet.”

Violet had to laugh at herself. It had taken her a long time to get to that last item on Frank’s list. But now that she had, she had no time to dwell on doubts about her life course. She had a ball to prepare for. A celebratory skip would not be amiss.

The duchess, however, set a leisurely pace as they strolled toward the stairs. A footman followed at a discreet distance carrying a box of cards of invitation, Violet’s share.

Violet could not say that she and Penelope had developed a friendship. Her acquaintance with Her Grace, the Duchess of Huntingdon, was but a few weeks old. It was far too early to claim intimacy, though Penelope had insisted that they use each other’s given names.

Three weeks earlier, the duchess, who had an interest in charitable projects, had called on Violet and invited her to call in return. Violet had discussed the invitation at length with her old governess and faithful friend, Augusta Lowndes, and the two had concluded that Violet could lose nothing in accepting such an invitation.

Penelope Frayne was a handsome, small-boned woman just past her thirtieth birthday, with green eyes and Titian hair. Before her marriage, such a gang of suitors had courted her that at one ball her father had reportedly cleared his house of the lot of them. Penelope possessed, in addition to title, fortune, and beauty, an effortless influence in society. Her willingness to take up a modiste or a milliner could mean thousands of pounds of added income for the favored establishment. In three weeks, with Penelope’s help, Violet had managed astonishing feats of preparation for a charity ball.

The pressure of the duchess’s arm on Violet’s roused some instinct that warned her that the duchess expected a return of favors for her support. Violet’s mind raced through all she knew of the Frayne family finances. Anything that would compromise the integrity of her father’s bank was out of the question. Such a request would mean her vision of a ball to support the former silk workers of Spitalfields would disappear in a blink like a magic lantern slide.

Violet wanted to take the stairs two at a time and leap into her carriage before any thought occurred that might make Penelope revoke her support. A March ball was a risky endeavor, and without Penelope’s backing the thing would be hopeless. Penelope’s delicate brows had contracted into a thoughtful crease.

“I think the idea of each lady wearing a distinctive gown made of fabric produced in Spitalfields sets just the tone.” They reached the landing and made the turn to the final flight of stairs. “If you agree, we could have our fittings here. I will turn over a drawing room to your seamstresses.”

Violet nodded. It was perhaps a wise strategy to bring the seamstresses to their titled patrons, rather than expecting the ladies to venture into the less savory neighborhoods of London. Violet truly was grateful for the duchess’s support, but conscious that the duchess saw through her a bit. She had not merely wanted help; she had wanted her fellow patronesses to recognize their dependence on the labor of others and the conditions under which their finery was created. If the ladies came to Park Lane for fittings, they would never see the rooms where women huddled around a single lamp working late into the night, but still the seamstresses would feed their families.

The duchess made no move to release Violet’s arm. Below them an alert footman in magnificent blue livery rose from a bench at the door.

“And who will you invite to our ball?”

“Oh, I hardly know.” Violet had not imagined Penelope to have any interest in Violet’s other acquaintance. Outside of their charitable project their paths never crossed. “I have dozens of friends who will lend their support to our cause.”

“I meant is there anyone you would wish to have as a special guest?”

Belatedly, Violet recognized the underlying question. “A man, you mean? No, I have my eye on a bank, not a man.”

“But men must have their eyes on you.”

“I think not. I’m no longer a girl.” Violet was twenty-four, and she hoped she had put her girlhood behind her, or locked it in a box, or buried it in a crypt, or sunk it in an ocean cave, like some weighty ship’s cargo tossed overboard to lighten the vessel so that it might move forward again.

“You are an heiress.”

“In that case, men don’t have their eyes on me, but on my bank account.”

Penelope gave her a doubting look. There was an extended pause before she spoke again. “Violet, you do know that Blackstone has returned.”

The name made Violet start. She caught up her skirts, as if her awkward movement was just a preparation for descending the stairs, but she feared the duchess had noted her reaction.
Blackstone
. She had banished him from her thoughts. No one in Hammersley House ever spoke his name, and yet the mention of it instantly gave her the sensation of tumbling ignominiously down the stairs in front of her. She reached to grab the rail and dropped her skirts, abruptly clumsy with the automatic movements of life. “I hadn’t heard. You don’t think one of the patronesses would invite him to our ball?”

“Oh never.” Penelope started walking again. “I just wanted you to be prepared for the inevitable talk. He’s scandalous as ever, I hear. It’s said that he returned to England with a harem.”

A harem
. Violet tried to keep her knees steady. She would think about Blackstone’s return later. Penelope had made no embarrassing request of a favor. It was not the end of Violet’s hopes for the ball. Still the sharp green gaze was bent on her. “Thank you for informing me. It’s unlikely that Blackstone’s path shall ever cross mine.”

“I should imagine not, but even at your end of town there is no avoiding the talk about such a man. He’s forever the center of some intrigue. The most circumspect of maidens is likely to hear something, if only her governess’s warning to avoid him.”

“You may be sure that he is no danger to me.”

“You are no longer interested in him?” Penelope sounded doubtful.

“I know his true character.” Violet looked down from the landing at the pattern of black and white marble in the entry hall. The duchess’s blue-coated footman stood in readiness to open the door. He had an umbrella in hand. Violet knew that she did not control the conversation. Only the duchess could end it when she saw fit. Rank had its privilege.

“Lady Ravenhurst made a play for him the other night. Offered up her wares like Covent Garden fare. Well, she can’t help it, I suppose. There is no subtlety in a bosom like hers. She simply lays them out like buns on a tea tray.”

Violet knew that she was meant to laugh at the image, but found that she had unthinkingly clenched her right hand. “I’m sure Blackstone knows what to do when tea is served.”

“But tell me, seriously, Violet, you don’t want him?” The duchess still had a hold of Violet’s elbow. Violet made an effort to meet the alert green gaze squarely. Penelope Frayne was no fool.

“I don’t want him.” She had once wanted him, as a girl, desperately and unwisely, but she was no longer that girl. Surely she could say that that desire was dead now. She forced her lips into a smile and gently pulled her arm free. The stairs looked impossibly long and steep, the footman impossibly distant.

“I confess I’m glad to hear it. I mean to have him if I can. Just to see what all the fuss is about, you know, but I didn’t want to interfere if you still regarded him as yours.”

“Not at all.”

***

A rainy evening blotted out a gray London beyond the club windows. Blackstone looked over the scaffolding that surrounded the club’s portico. The usual hammering had stopped. A month had passed since his return. He wondered whether the rain would keep Lady Ravenhurst from a masquerade in a public garden, with private grottos and long, dark lanes of trees. A perfumed note had advised Blackstone of the nature of the costume the lady intended to wear and Wilde had procured him a domino. He found he had no objection when Goldsworthy sent for him instead.

“Blackstone, the club agrees with you.” Goldsworthy laced the fingers of his large hands, rested them on a spread of papers on his desk, and cast a measuring glance over Blackstone. “Still some lingering effects of Vasiladi’s hospitality, I imagine, but give us time, and we’ll get the meat back on your bones.” He waved Blackstone into a leather chair.

The office resembled a temporary military headquarters with paint-and-plaster-spattered canvas draped floor to ceiling, dividing one part of the room from the section where Goldsworthy had set up his desk. A rolled-up rug leaned against a paneled wall with maps of London and glass-fronted cabinets stuffed with weapons. “You must pardon the dust and chaos of these renovations.”

“I cannot fault the club’s services.” Except for the hammering and the tramp of carpenters’ feet, living at the Pantheon Club was like being a well-stabled horse. One was fed and groomed and exercised by careful attendants, and one had only to do his part, and nothing too onerous, at that. Blackstone didn’t quite know why he was resisting Lady Ravenhurst, but he didn’t think that Goldsworthy expected him to go so far as to seduce a married woman of quality. It was all a matter of appearances, suggestions, whispers. Whether he seduced married ladies or didn’t, people were supposed to believe him an unrepentant rake, which London society had been willing to believe of him from the moment he’d inherited his father’s title at twenty-four.

“Good. I have no complaints about your reentry into London society. You’ve managed to be seen everywhere, I think. However, now that you have the lay of the land so to speak, the real work begins. We’ve a case for you, lad.”

“A case?”

“Yes, it’s pressing I’m afraid. Neither Hazelwood, nor Clare will do, but you should be able to wrap it up in a week or so.”